Write Them Down on a Napkin
by SweetG
Summary: -Puck/Kurt- ...It would've been 'I kind of love you'. It's been 'I kind of love you' for a few months now, which is dangerous, stupid, reckless, and makes all his muscles constrict in protest at how bad this is.


Hysterical. Slightly hysterical, and very manic. Twitching and biting, and blowing heated puffs of air, and just...

"Did you do it?"

"What?" A lack of emotion. A blank space. People can't read something from someone who is closed off, like a casket –the picture makes him tremble internally-. Like a hole in a wall, like something detached and white and dull.

"Were you the one who put that Gordon jerk in the hospital?"

Puck doesn't even flinch at the accusation, doesn't even lift an eyebrow, doesn't even look at Kurt like Kurt has gone crazy (as maybe he should, because sometimes even he doesn't know). He just closes his eyes, and opens them a while later, fixing him with an impersonal gaze that isn't at all comforting.

"Yes, fucker had it coming."

"Are you stupid? Really, Noah, what were you even _thinking_?"

It's a good thing that there's noone else in the classroom, a good thing that classes have ended an hour or two ago, a good thing. A seriously good thing, because Kurt is pretty sure that he's yelling, and that this is just going to end up in a shouting match or something even worse than that. Because it's _them_, and this is the way they do things, hard and complicated.

He can already hear the tiny cracks in his body. The sickening rise and fall of his chest from agitated, stuttering breathing.

"I don't know. Maybe I was fucking mad about those newly bruised ribs you had yesterday? Or the black eye? Fuck, Hummel. Even _Finn_ wouldn't be this dumb, it's fucking obvious_why_ I smashed that sorry bastard's head against the pavement." He isn't even looking at Kurt. He's lounging comfortably in his chair, acting like all of this is normal (like what they have, this mocking semblance of a relationship, is _normal_), and Kurt feels sick.

Louder. His heart beat. It speeds up, spiralling out of control. Noah looks at him, then, and there's a dozen emotions flashing through his dark eyes. There's a bored something, and a furious seed, and there's this speck of warmth (warmth and a thousand endearments, a billion nice things) that frightens Kurt more than this Gordon guy did when he came up to him two days ago, spitting hurtful words and throwing a few punches.

There's more. But that's it for him. That's_it_, because he just doesn't want to _know_. Doesn't want to _see_.

"Noah, this has happened before. And it will probably happen again. And it's not alright, but I can manage pretty okay by myself. I've always been okay by myself. Even when it was you instead of Gordon." Vitriolic. Wanting to push and harm and inflict as much pain as he can, because at this point, this is all he can do, all he's got left. It's either this –this ugly blowing up thing where he explodes and Puck explodes back at him- or breaking down and asking _why the hell are you doing this to me, you_ asshole?

Puck looks stricken for about a second, though, and after that he's grabbing Kurt's wrist so hard that he knows there will be angry, colorful bruises in the immediate future. They are almost the same height and Puck is not really towering over himself and he's not afraid about receiving any kind of physical threat from him, but they are too close and there's something about to go down in here that Kurt's not ready for (he doubts he's ever going to be ready), and he just wants to get away from all this. There's no more scorching necessity to yell and get a point across, he wants to_flee_.

"I never hurt you like he did. I would never hurt you like he did, I kind of lo-"

"Noah, let go." _Noah, shut up_.

(It would've been _I kind of love you_. It's been_I kind of love you_ for a few months now, which is dangerous, stupid, reckless, and makes all his muscles constrict in protest at how _bad_this is.)

"I wouldn't." He sounds sincere; he sounds harsh and manly, angry, riled up, tense. But safe.

This is _bad_. For both of them. Puck's got his reputation, and Kurt's got his stupid heart that breaks easily, but isn't as easily fixed. This is worse than bad, this is all sorts of absurd. A laughable casualty to the previous year's madness; a casualty to Quinn and Finn and Rachel, and everything that went down between all the possible combinations between the three of them (an accident made of loneliness, of letting go and falling down and trying to build something entirely new and not even _knowing_ how to). They are _not_ good for each other, neither in theory or practice.

"Let go." Pride. Always. In his voice, in his steps, in the way he talks, and sings, and looks at everything and everyone else. Pride.

Puck lets go, but when Kurt is walking away (hurting everywhere but not really caring) the boy talks, clear and straightforward.

"I don't know what the fuck's up with you, but when you stop freaking out about us, you know where to find me, dude."

Puck's never needed to embellish his words; Kurt's never needed to play simple, so he keeps walking.

He is almost out of earshot when he hears Puck talking again, louder (yet, somehow softer).

"I kinda love you. And you kinda love me. Man up, Hummel."

He hurries away, as fast as he can.

He spends the rest of the day feeling his sore wrist up, thinking _man up_. 


End file.
